The Riddler and The Fiddler
by Manic-Mania
Summary: Bobby has a secret, and it lands her in Arkam. How will she deal with being with the most notorious criminals? Including the Riddler? And how will others react to the little music maker? Riddler X OC  rated T just in case.  I DO NOT OWN BATMAN
1. A new neighbor

She came to the asylum with her hair so bright colored pink that it brought one to find her obnoxious. Her head was ducked beneath her shoulders and she was constrained in bands, similar to the joker but she wasn't making bad jokes and threatening the guards lives. She just hung there with her arms tied to her sides and her eyes to the floor. "pardon my inquiry..." She says in an ever so soft voice; "I would like to have my violin. This place has no music keeping it alive..." She said directed at the floor, but still coming for one of the guards. "If you want music, lady" One of the guards responded, looking at the top of her tiny head "You'll have to sing it yourself" I swear her hair turned a shade darker. "I can't sing..." She said, but her voice was soft. It had the qualities of a singer. "I haven't perfected that yet... What harm can a violin do?" She looked up with eyes filled with no evil intentions, just an honest craving for music. One of the guards sigh. "Alright, Benny, I will see what I can do." This man was obviously related to the girl, or cared about her somehow. She smiled up at him childishly.

They wheeled her by my cell and dropped her in her tiny white room with one wall made of glass. She sad there until they pressed the syringe into the girls arm and knocked her out. They placed her on the bed and rolled the lift out of the room, closing the auto-lock door. I was glad for a change in neighbor, seeing the penguin or the joker in the room beside me always made me uneasy at night. All their screams and their attempts to get out. The jokers bad jokes would be among the worst. "Hey, hey Riddler, my man, allow me to brighten your spirits with a little humor!" He would say with that cackle of his. He knew that it annoyed me to no end, but did it just to spite me...

Aside from these thoughts of the annoying neighbors I saw the guard who was either closely related or familiar with the girl next door- Benny, was it?- walk to the door and open the security lock and place the violin onto her bed next to her. She really looked harmless. Her figure was very small, and she was thin and had wide eyes and short, straight hair. I saw no harm in the girl. I went about my business and pulled a newspaper from my desk and began reading about the piety and failures of the human race in that bustling city. The crooks and the cons, the damned and the dames. All of them like small sheep entrapped in the tiny box of their own mentality...

The girl next door tapped twice on the wall of her cell, connecting to mine. "tap tap tap..." She waits... "Tap tap tap tap..." and at another corner of the wall "Tap tap tap tap tap..." I wonder to myself if she is looking for somebody to return the taps. The girl obviously doesn't understand the ways of the asylum... I hear her fall back on the wall and slide down. It's a general action of new-comers here, falling back on the wall and sliding into fetal position on the floor realizing they made it into the mad house. "...Do you like music, mister Riddle?" I walked over to the wall and said "Riddle me this; My voice is tender, my waist is slender and I'm often invited to play. Yet wherever I go I must take my bow or else I have nothing to say. What am I?" The girl on the other side of the wall giggled and said "a violin, obviously." She shifted against the wall and began to play her violin, it was nice to hear some music filling the halls for once.


	2. The fiddlers folly

Lunchtime at Arkham. I've done lunch at many a hospital, I suppose. Its all the same, in reality. You have the gossipers, and the anti socials... its basically like your average highschool. You have at least one of everything... I quietly grab a tray and set myself down at one of the tables, picking at the green goop and the gray goop. "the breakfast of champions!" I say to myself, knowing that nobody would be able to hear my tiny voice from all the way across the room. I toss it into the trash beside my table and walk over to the library, my violin case in hand. "My only friend, my only muse." I whisper, patting the case gingerly... I glance across the room at the various vilians. Mister Crane reading a novel about fear and its inner workings, The Riddler puroosing over the brain teasers, looking quite disappointed. Miss Pamela flipping through the latest biology and bio chemicals section of your newer magezines... I take to a rather old looking part of the library, "music" is plastered on a large sign hanging over the dusty shelves.

I flip through the scores and sheets, so many beautiful songs leaking into my head at once, finally I find the one I want most. I place the score on the shelf and begin playing the song "vitali chaconne" on my violin, the music echo's throughout the asylum. I lean into the music, my hands expertly playing over the strings, wishing I had a piano to play along side me. The two most beautiful instruments of all time, hamony being reached simply by two hearts inter-locked in time with the same song in mind... The world clouds around me, and in one single movement I remember... I stopped mid stroke of the strings. I took the paper and asked if I could go outdoors with my music. Thankfully one of the guards agreed and opened the door to the heavy gated grounds, wilted tree's and broken grass beconing me to move forward, and I did. I moved onward to a place where there was as few things to damage as possible. I then tuned my violin and began playing again, this time allowing the world to cloud around me.

I shouldn't have followed her, leaving the awe struck faces of the pitiful minded behind me. But I was so curious as to why she had stopped with such a look of horror frozen on her features. It was as though she had seen a ghost. I must admit curiosity wasn't my most strong suit of emotion, and neither was sympathy, in fact I never found myself feeling such a thing, even now. It was the curiosity that was killing me. No, I will just say it was the burning hunger for knowledge...

By the time I arrived on the hill, where the girl was standing beneath the tree with her eyes closed as though she was in slumber, the only thing that would make on think otherwise. Her music echoed over the hills and around the gates of arkham. She was correct... Her voice would never reach this area of expertese. She played the bow across the strings with such vigor that I figured the violin would begin bleeding.

But the tranquility was a lie.

By the time she reached within 3 minutes of her playing I felt a rumble neneath the ground. Still she strummed vigorously, the song growing more and more intense. The ground rumbled in protest, and the sky rolled in excitement, the air would have raised the hair on even the batmans arms. The air crackled without lightning and the ground exploded with energy. The earth shook like a hurricane and split open like a maw exploding to open on the humans, as though to swallow up their bodies and souls and take them into hell with it, the tree behind her exploded and shards flew through the air, some of which landed in her skin, embedding themselves in her flesh. She still didn't seem to notice, until the ground knocked a stone forward and it rocketed forward with such speed that it knocked into her head and knocked her onto the floor, in a very anti climactic sense, and just like that; the music stopped. It was dead silent, and the only thing to remember the sounds screaming through the air was the carnage of earth all over the hill.


	3. Aminor slipup

I awoke on my bed, rubbing my head with an arm that wasn't in a sling. The arm that was had various bits of wood splintered into it, and cuts criss-crossing from end to end. Bandages were wrapped around my arms and legs. I swear, I should wear a full suit of armor, when I play... or perhaps I should stop all together.

_You don't believe that, and you know it! _

A voice echoes in my head, as it always does regarding the music. It's like this separate being, my urge to play... It's like an angry muse is thrashing about in my head. Speaking of which, my head is pounding. I continue to rub it when my uncle comes in, he has my violin, totally unharmed as always, and a bottle of painkillers.

"You should be more careful with that 'gift' of yours..." He says, concern playing on his features.

"Your father was the same, you know. It killed him, with his flute... I don't want your talents to do you in, too." The last thing I need is to be reminded of that.

"I know." I say. Thinking 'it's not that simple', but I want to avoid confrontation. I want to avoid lengthy conversation.

"Well, here's something to dull the pain." He says, handing me my pills. "I also know how uncomfortable you get without this thing around, especially after an 'episode'..." He places my violin down, leaning against the far wall.

"Take care, okay? Let the nurse know when you need something."

I pop the pills into my mouth, and swallow some water... they go down easy enough.  
I slowly close my eyes, as the effects of the drugs ooze over my consciousness. I drift off to sleep, music playing in my head...

The girl was pointedly rushed to the hospital wing of the asylum, bandaged, drugged, and operated on. By Operated, I mean they pulled the splinters out, disinfected the wounds and checked her head and vitals. I was quickly rushed away into the lounge, where I met a group of all too quizative inmates, each with prying eyes.

"Who's the new girl?" Miss Quinn says with her heavy jersey accent "she seemed kinda shy."  
"Indeed, I noticed her browsing through the music section." chimes in another prisoner  
"Friend of yours?" the questions go on.

"I know nothing of the girl. Just that she enjoys music." I say, pointedly. Trying to avoid much conversation with these people, they would bore me with their laughable intellect. Why should I indulge them? It would only tire me.

I start to flip through some books, the music section beckoning. I've not played any Piano since childhood, though I used to boast of my skills. "That's not good enough!" my father would shriek. "You're such a disgrace!" Continuously bellowing, always belittling me. I don't notice that my grip was tightening on the books until I nearly threw it down. "Ah..." I say, quietly. Best not to call unnecessary attention to myself.

"All inmates proceed to your cells, the curfew is now in effect."

The intercom informs, as inmates are herded to the cells. Some by cow-prod. I almost chuckle at the unintended pun.

When I reach my cell, I notice the girl is laying on the bed, bandaged, and obviously drugged. Her eyes are lethargic, and a somniferous look on her face. The bandages on her arms are bloodied, and her hair is in disarray from the bandages repeatedly wrapped around her cranium. Blood flowering over the white surface of the material. I wonder if that rock hit her harder than I had assumed...


	4. group Therapy

My first group therapy session at Arkam, I was sitting in a cold metal folding chair in a circle. I was placed between a couple of the less dangerous inmates, Harley Quinn, and The Riddler. Miss Quinn was pretty upset that she couldn't sit by her "puddin'" but was curious enough not to throw a big fuss. The reluctant Riddler was difficult as always to sit down and be quiet, but I can expect that. He rests on the chair after many protests and looks over at me for a second. Each of the characters looked so different without all the hollywood. By hollywood I mean make-up, glamour, masks, suits, weapons. All the special effects. Each of them had handsome pieces in some respect.

Harley Quinn's face was round, and beautiful. If she sat down and concentrated, she looked so dignified, and graceful. One time I walked by her cell, and I noticed her reading a book, her hair was down, she had on a pair of sleek glasses, and her hair fell in golden tangles around her neck and shoulders. Her legs were crossed, and her face was poised. The book was a french exposition on psychology and illness.

The Riddler looked sort of like the main man in an old fifties movie. Perhaps like Dirk Bogarde, but much more refined. His hair wasn't slicked back as it would be seen on the television, or in gotham, it was clean, but messy. He tried many times to brush it back, but that didn't work as he would like much to his chagrin. Little bits would fall on his jutting and masculine features only to tickle them and irritate the hell out of him. I had to hold a laugh as he grunted angrily at a particular hair hanging down by his nose.

I was about to go into further analysis regarding the texture of the skin, the hand movements, the body language. The specific physical features, but I was interrupted by a rather handsome man in his early thirties walking in and telling everybody to "calm down, please." in his rather soft, if not patient voice. I immediately jolted upright in my seat, remembering that this is a therapy session. I hugged my knees in my seat, and laid my chin on them.

"Hey, don't worry, the doc here's a total crack-pot!" Miss Quinn says excitedly "he wouldn't hurt ya eitha, he's a pretty nice guy." she pats my knee and smiles.

She's much too kind to be a villain, isn't she?

"she's probably just hesitant to be probed by the doctor" the Riddler says. "perhaps she doesn't like psycho analysis."

I just keep quiet as they start to bicker. It's true. I've never liked being analyzed. My mind is my own, and I don't want anybody trying to worm their way in. That would be a huge mistake on their part.

I don't even know why I'm here.

I want to go home...

"Now, let's start out, shall we?" the doctor says, stacking his papers neatly, and putting them in a clip-board. "I see we have a new face here. Why don't you tell us all your name?"

"Names have power." I say, "everybody here already has enough power." a group of people start to laugh. I squeeze tighter into my chair, wishing I could turn into an ant and hide in the hollow tubes.

"Well, then what would you like to be called?"

"I'm fine with 'hey, you.', thanks..." not that anybody has ever tried to address me. The doctor frowned.

"I can't make any progress if you refuse to cooperate." he says.

"I don't need progress." I say, "I'm perfectly sane..." again, a lot of people laugh.

"I've been trying to tell 'em that same line, toots. It hasn't worked." says a prisoner at the far end.

"Then why are you here?"

"I don't know..."

"Tell me about what happened before you arrived."

silence.

Almost the whole group leaned forward visibly in their chairs. Even the Riddler took the time to cup his chin and look intrigued. His was an expression of clear interest only. Possibly hoping for another puzzle, or a good story. Even Harley Quinn stopped swinging her legs back and forth, she crossed them, and leaned forward; possibly the most animatedly. Her face, however, showed not only interest, but concern. Scarecrow put his fingertips together one by one, and rested his elbows on his knees, an almost smile creeping on his face. The penguin did similarly, only his hands were folded together.

Silence.

I bit my lower lip, and squeezed tighter my legs. I had my face half ducked behind my knees. If only I could disappear. If only I could get out of here.

"I've also heard you like music." the doctor said. Refusing to give up. Refusing to back down, his voice becoming much more angry.

I kept quiet. No more words would escape me.

"Sing us a song." he says, "show us your music" he says.

I gasp so loud it felt like a heavy burden added onto the structure. The silence grew even heavier. "I can't do that..." I say, trying harder to squeeze into a smaller mass, but failing. My fingers were getting sore, and my knees were beginning to cramp.

"oh, come now. Can't you just sing a small note?" he says, it starts to feel like he's playing with me. I knew this would be a bad idea.

_Oh come now, a single note? _

Not today. No notes today.

_Can't you sing just a small note? _

I start holding onto my head.

"I can't sing." I say.

_Yes you can, sing just a small note. A single tone, I know you can. _

_Do it._

_Do it!_

_DO IT!_

"Nooo..." I groan.

Before I know it, my feet are firm on the ground, my mouth slowly opens, and I start to hold a key of C minor. A lot of people gasp, The Penguin, the Riddler, and the Scarecrow all smile. Harley Quinns face is that of horror. My eyes start to leak, and I'm crying. A crack goes from my feet all the way to the doctor, and it throws him, his clipboard, and his own chair at the wall, knocking him unconscious. He seems to ooze from the wall to the linoleum like a fluid. I clasp my head and kneel.

"I'm sorry." I cry.

"I didn't mean to."

I feel a pair of hands on my shoulders, and a voice say "it's alright." with a slight jersey accent as a nurse rushes into the room. She flings the door open, and sees the opening in the floor, with me kneeling, Miss Quinn soothing me, and a bleeding doctor laying on the ground. He had received head trauma. I was escorted back to my cell, and told I may be put into solitude for a week after the incident.


	5. Ave Maria

When you're given a week in solitude, it gives you a lot of time to think. A lot of time to analyze things. Too much time to wonder what's going to happen. Too much time for nightmares. Too much time for tears. I try not to make a sound, though. My body would convulse and heave as I would hold my breath, trying my hardest not to make a sound. I'm scared if I'm too loud, I'll break something again. I don't see a lot of things to break, here. But I see a lot of walls. Big, tall walls on either side of me, in front and behind me. A roof overhead, and a floor below. The solitary room is cold, and lonely, and hard. I ache for my bed in my cell. I want to go home... I want to go home... Please, please why can't I go home?

"You know, kiddo," my mother said to me, one day. Long, long ago. "The voice is a very powerful weapon." I'm sitting with my feet crossed. My eyes intent on her face as she tells me these things. I loved my mom. "Just think about all the people who have used their voice for good." she smiles a sweet smile down at me.

"Like you, mommy?" I say, my voice was small. Tiny. Puny. Weak.

"Yes, baby. Like mommy." She says, "Someday, you'll use your voice for good, too. I know you will."  
I squeal, a cup rattles on a table. "Thank you, mommy! I'll go and practice, right now!" I say, I get up and run off to pull out a big book of folk songs and things that my mother gave me. My whole family has always been very wrapped in music. My mothers instrument in particular was the voice. She was magnificent. Her voice was like that of an angels. She could sing Ave Maria on key, the whole time, and hold a note for a minute and a half. She was an angel. I always thought so. Her long brown curls would fall around a beautiful face with high cheek-bones and wise eyes. Her smile was warmer than any caress. I decided to try and sing Ave Maria, just like her. I hit the first note, and I think I'm doing fairly well. I close my eyes and clasp my hands to my chest, practicing deep breaths with my diaphragm. I open my mouth wide and from my mouth comes another note. It feels wonderful. Like every impurity and every discontentment in the world was being cured. I sang louder. Louder. Louder. My eyes closed, and my voice reaching further and further...

Ave Maria, gratia plena.

Maria, gratia plena

Maria, gratia plena

Ave, ave dominus,

Dominus tecum.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

Et benedictus

Et benedictus fructus ventris,

Ventris tui, Jesus.

Ave Maria.

I open my eyes after reaching that final note, and the house is wrecked. Eyes begin to pulsate and burn. Tears swell from my eyes. I take a few steps back, and stumble on a beam from the ceiling. The brown wood of the stairs is blistered and warped. The beams from the ceiling are fallen and broken. The paint on the walls is chipped and frayed. Curtains are torn. Rugs and carpets are demolished. The panels on the hallway floors are bent and lifted and splintered and some of them are even burned. I walk into the living room to find the kitchen on fire, and spreading to the living room, slowly. The piano is flipped and broken. Everything is broken. Everything... "Mommy..." I say... My voice comes out strong. "Mommy I practiced..." It cracks "Mommy I can sing too... I can sing like... you..." I see a few long strands of dark hair twisting out from under a column... I dare to look on, seeing my mother on the floor, her entire head hidden under the very thing that kept the roof stable. The walls strong. The very thing that stood in the middle of the house, strong and proud. It would hold pictures and to-do lists that belonged to the family. My mother was crushed beneath it. She was demolished along with the rest of the house. "Mommy..."

"MOTHER!" I'm sitting upright, my neck and back are sore, tears are welled down my face. There's a crack in the wall... Tears swell in my eyes, as I bury my head in my arms. "Mother... mother..." I whimper the song "Ave Maria" in my head, and rock back and forth. I don't know how long I can take this solitude...


	6. Contemplating cataclysm

She's been in solitude for three days, and already I hear some commotion about a wall being split down the middle. I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. These types of things always happen. Why do the guards look so panicked? I wonder if the girl got hurt. As if it would matter, I scoff. Just one less meat bag to worry about. I overhear a couple of the guards talking.

"She had a nightmare."

"How bad?"

"Woke up screaming."

"Explains the split in the wall... Do you think with a power like hers she would-"

"No. Bobby is not criminal scum, Hank."

"She had to be landed in this place for a reason."

"What kind of conclusions do you think people will jump to when a kid her age demolishes a stadium playing a violin, huh?"

This catches my attention. What could the little music-maker have done to end up here? Killed thousands of people? Blown up a stadium? Interesting. I sit at the far end of the room and pull up a newspaper, in order to look inconspicuous as the men continued their conversation.

"She had to do it for a reason."

"The reason she did what she did was because she couldn't control herself."

"Right."

"You saw her in the solitary room. Do you really think she would do that to herself on purpose?"

"She's in an asylum..."

The other man, whom I'd assumed was close to the girl grabbed the other guard, hank, by the scruff of his collar. "She's in this god forsaken place because all the people she loved insisted she was a dangerous criminal after the accident. You don't understand her situation, and don't assume you do. Also, if you so much as lift a finger against my Bobby, you'll hear about it later. Are we clear?"

Hmm. Turns out Hank's reputation for inmate mistreatment wasn't just notorious amongst the inmates.

"You'll have nothing to say about it." The man says, pulling his collar from the other guards hand "If I were you, I wouldn't piss off the other guards." He brushed himself off and smiled at the man, who looked like he was boiling from the inside.

"Fucking tyrant guard..." the man curses, popping his knuckles in what looked like an effort to calm himself. He had nothing but rage in his eyes.

He stepped out after his shift was over, exchanging his shift with another guard, and heading to the cafeteria. I checked the clock and decided I should do the same. It was around 2:38 p.m, probably best to get something in my stomach before they shut down the kitchen until six. I start walking down the halls and before I even reach the cafeteria, I can feel it, and hear it bubbling with excitement and rumors. As I expect, the place is a brewing ground for rumors and commotion. But a very specific name was on the lips of criminals today.

"Did you hear about The Fiddler? They say she's got a lot of stress pent up in that little cell. Twenty bucks and a pack of smokes says she's going to break before the week is out."

"That banshee threw the doc all the way across the room. Smashed his head with his own chair and didn't even touch the guy. I bet if she really wanted to escape, she could."

"She doesn't belong here. You saw the look on her face. She's innocent, didn't mean no harm."

"Hmm, Perhaps you're right. Maybe we could change that, what do you think?"

"You mean drive her crazy? You think she'd be any use on our side of the law? She aint no street-hardened criminal."

"She could be."

I keep walking straight past the gossiping goons and get a pile of slop served onto my tray, I sit down next to Harley, who's sitting with Ivy, and Crane.

"Hiya, Eddie..." She says unenthusiastically. I look over to Ivy, she shrugs.

"What is the matter, miss Quinn?" I say, curious. She's not usually like this. Not that it particularly interests me.

"I feel bad for the kid, ya know? She's got it hard enough as it is... now ev'ry body's talkin' about changin' 'er. Poor gal..."

"I don't know much about the girl, Harley. But you're probably right. She doesn't seem to belong here."

I stifle a laugh. Leave it to Harley Quinn to pick up a soft spot for a new girl. She's always been one to see everybody as a damsel in distress. Everybody but herself, that is. Even if she is in the deepest pit of shit compared, as Jokers personal punching bag.

"Hey bozo don't you laugh at me. She's in trouble and you know it."

True, she does not belong here. She probably never will. But, there's not a whole lot I can do about it. I shrug indifferently, and scoop up some of the lunch that was given to me. Luke-warm lasagna slop. I stir it around a bit, eventually deciding to toss it in the trash and head back to my cell.

I pull out some crosswords and riddle-books. None of which really challenge my intellect, but keep me busy all the same. I notice a violin playing in the distance. I smile as the notes trace their way across the building, allowing my head to rock back, and wait for that sudden ...CRASH...

...It didn't come that night...


	7. Cafeteria Rage

**I'm really sorry about the long wait. I guess you could say I've been under a lot of pressure lately. But I'll keep at it. Please be patient with me. ^-^"**

I hate this place. I hate all these people, and I hate all these fucking psychopaths. I hate these walls, and these doctors, and these chairs. I hate the lunch here. I hate the meds they give me. I hate everything. I have everybody. I hate.

I hate.

I

Hate.

As I'm walking to the lunchroom, I notice people around me. They step back. From me. I glare in their directions, and some of them even wince in pain. I grit my teeth and pick up the tray the lunch lady gives me. Her greasy hands look like chopped up pigs. Her fingernails are chewed and splintered and yellow. Her lips are thin, but covered in lip-stick any way. Her eyes look crusty, her teeth are yellow. I send mental daggers into her forehead. She flinches.

"Finally get out, sweety?" a jersey accent is sloppily delivered to my ears. It oozes, and I whirl around to look that sleazy jersey accent in the face.

"What do you think, Quinn? Did I MATERIALIZE here? No... If I had that power, I would be far from this... this shit hole by now."

She looks horrified; "I was only trying to be friendly..."

"Don't." I turn on my heel and sit at a table. I am avoided. Nobody comes near me. Good. I play with my hands a bit, and tap something into the table, a simple one, two, one, two drum beat. A tray down the table explodes in some bodies face. I cringe and start to head off. Fuck. Shit. Bloody hell, I'm going to get killed, fuck.

"Hey, girl." a pitched, and aged voice berates my ears. "Heheheh...Hahahahaha! That was pretty funny!" he steps towards me. I can practically smell the bad intent on his teeth. Aligned in a murderous yellow line of murder. That doesn't even make sense. I can't move. I'm scared. I'm petrified. "But you know, darlin'..." He grabs my by the scruff of my collar. I can't move. I can't fucking move. Son of a... "Nobody pulls a prank on the JOKER!" He hits me. Hard. I fall to the floor, and I have a pretty bruise on my cheek. I can feel it. Great. I'm certain this will look great on my Arkham I.D.

I don't say anything, for fear of screaming, or making him more angry. Harley comes at him and tries to pull him away.

"She didn't mean nothin' Puddin'. She didn't know any better." She says eagerly. Tugging like a foolish child. He hits her too.

"Get your hands off me, Daddy will take care of his own business."

I mentally gag. Why would anybody like to be called daddy unless they are ACTUALLY a father? Why is he hitting Harley? No. No, that's not alright. I may have blown up at Harley... That wasn't right. She's the only one that showed me any kindness... I can't let her get hurt. I scramble to my feet as Joker man-handles Harley. She's struggling.

"Leave her alone." I say when I finally reach my feet. I'm a head and a half shorter than the Joker. I have to peek up at him. He is intimidating, for such a thin man. One wouldn't doubt his ability to handle things himself.

"Hahahahaha, that's rich. Listen, doll. She's my property. I'll do with her as I please." he drops her anyway. Practically throwing her like trash onto the linoleum floor. She grunts.

"It's okay, toots, he loves me. This is how he shows it, it's okay."

I look over at her for a brief moment and say "I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier."

She smiles.

He mashes his teeth together. They make an ugly row of big yellows. He approaches me. Eyes intent on a target. Like a semi-truck about to haul over a deer. I stand my ground. His face is an inch from mine, and his hand reaches to choke me.

My feet are off the ground, and I'm suspended against a wall. His toxic green eyes are on mine. I try and claw at his hand to make a clear vocal path. He's choking me and all that would come out would be scratchy and unrefined. I need a noise. A good noise. A big noise. A noise that never comes.

I'm scrambling to make noise on the walls, on his flesh, with my own voice. Nothing comes. My throat slaps against itself like a dying fish. My sneakers do nothing to help me. My hands are like delicate caresses to his scarred white skin. It's enough... This is enough... My struggles become less and less. I can't move very well... My eyes slip closed... The jokers toxic greens penetrate my mind. An unwelcome guest in my holiest of places. My sanctuary. My place of song. He intrudes on my music. His manic laughter tearing the pages I had written over years of practice. As my hands slip open, I see the joker turn around. I see a face behind him with disheveled brown hair, and an intelligent gaze...


	8. F Major and Close Calls

"You get into a lot of trouble, it seems." a voice says. It's refined, gentlemanly edge mixed with the slight grain of an arrogant man, fully capable of killing a person. I open my eyes to see Edward Nygma sitting beside my most likely bruised, battered form. I'm laying on a bed. What is he doing in here?  
"What are you doing in here?" First line of thought. First line of speech. It hurts to talk, and my voice is hoarse and quiet... Hell. Did the Joker really mess me up THAT bad? I touch my throat a moment, and a hoarse breath escapes. What would have been a note in F Major. F, of course, stands for Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffff f... Fair enough. He'll get his as soon as my throat heals up. He'll get it good.  
"I'm the one who pried Joker off of you. Shouldn't I get a thanks... Or a reward or something?"  
I gasp. How rude. "A reward? I never took you for the type, Nygma." he looks insulted.  
"Ha. If I wanted THAT, I could simply go out and find it within a 30 minute span. I was talking something a bit more substantial." He eyes me, meaningful. I have a feeling he's going to use some sort of manipulative tactic. Something tells me to shut off as much contact as I can. "I heard you damaged the solitary ward pretty bad." he says. He pulls a strand of his brown hair back, out of his face. "Impressive. It makes me wonder what you could do to a few Arkham walls."  
Oh. He wants me to help him escape. How cute. "Are you crazy!?"  
He quirks a brow. Right. Yes, Yes he is. He is... in fact, CONFIRMED psychopath. Right. "... Do you really think we would get away with something like that? I mean, they have guards, and guns. They have guards WITH guns. They have guards with guns with _scopes_ on them, Nygma. I can't do anything about scopes."  
"Like I wouldn't have a plan for that. Consider who you're talking to." He flashes an arrogant smile.  
"How much are you expecting from me? Honestly."  
"I just expect you to use that pretty little voice of yours..." He says, cupping my chin in his hand. He's close. Really close. His breath smells nice. My eyes feel heavy all of a sudden, probably due to being so close to such a face. His face could stop time.  
His face was stopping time.  
His lips are in a smile. His teeth are white. His hands are so soft. His fingers are long and graceful and he smells so nice. His eyes are a deep green, and they shape in a particularly devilish manner. If sin had a physical form, he would be it. He looks sly, and smooth, and calculating. He's the worst kind of evil. He's the kind that knows what he's doing. I would even say he's the kind that has his wits about him. He may be insane. He might even have the paperwork for it. But is it possible to be aware of how crazy you might be? Able to use it to your advantage? Maybe even suppress it a moment?  
As I was going on in my head about the possible hook-ups and things of Edward Nygma's mind, he had let go of my face, and backed away. His smug grin never left his face, of course. My eyes probably gave away everything. I wasn't finished, though. I was looking into his soul!  
Well. No. I was just really close to him. Closer to him than I had been to anybody in... Well... Ever. You can't really get that close to people when there's a risk you might speak too loud, or lose your cool, and hurt them... With your voice.  
It was probably very wrong that I wanted to pounce on him, and get that closeness back. Or not. Humans are social creatures. Would he be upset by it? Would he explode at me? Do I have anything to lose?  
I consider my options in silence, staring up at the ceiling as he waltzes out of my cell. The door closes quietly, and I release a breath I didn't know I had been holding.


	9. Fiddlers Fright

**Hello, all! I know it's been a long while, since my last update. I came across a bit of a writers block. But, I'm working it out. I hope. :P But, yes. Here's the next chapter! I really hope you enjoy it. I wanted to thank everybody who reviewed, also. And who took the time to follow this story. Thank you so, so much, ****_SuperHeroAnimeGeek_****, and ****_ShadowBoxing_****, and ****_MadTeaLady_****, and ****_Takara410._**** I really appreciate the Reviews. :) Thank you, thank you~~!**  
_DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE BATMAN, NOR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS. I OWN BOBBY. BUT THAT IS ALL. Thank you again. :D_

* * *

I laid there for a while, thinking about the Riddlers offer. I really had no idea what to think about it. I mean, he isn't to be trusted. He would likely just abandon me, at best. I would have no idea where to go from there. But then again, it could mean a new life. A new life without asylums, or psychopaths, or any of this... this ridiculousness. No more solitary confinement, or group therapy, or nonsense! None of those would even be THINGS any more... But then again, I would never see any of my family members, again. Nor would I get to play music, much. I would have to avoid hospitals, and official places of government business until I got papers, which I hear are really hard to get, they don't just pop up out of nowhere. And getting them forged is expensive, if you want good papers. As well as social security cards. How would I make a living for myself? Could I get into a school, again? Perhaps I could take home courses. Study from home, until I can get to college. But that could take a lot of time. I would also have to afford a computer. Which means getting a job, somehow, which would mean getting papers. It's a cycle. Circular thinking is bad, Bobby. Stop it.

I'd been in the medical ward for a couple weeks, now. I was healing pretty well, it seems. I'd gotten to watch various other bruised and battered inmates come in and out of the ward. Some with black eyes, others with bones jutting from their skin. It all seemed very surreal to me... Watching these people, injured on different levels, many of which were laughing, or crying, or screaming with rage and hostility. None of them really went in quietly. Except once. Oswald went in saying nothing, once. He just had a slight grin on his face. He looked over to me, and waved. I was stuck on whether or not I should acknowledge the gesture, and didn't have a chance to decide before he was out of sight.

As I'm having this little thought session with myself, a man in a lab-coat walks into my room. His name-tag says "Doctor Smith". I look up at him, and he has messy brown hair, and square-framed glasses. He smiles at me widely. "Hello. I'll be doing your check-up, today, miss..."

"Just call me Bobby." I say.

"Bobby, then. What a nice name." He says, looking off into the distance for a moment; "I'm just going to check your vitals, and be on my way. Make sure you aren't going to die, or anything."

"Comforting." I say, dripping with sarcasm. The doctor checks things out, writes a few things on his notepad, and clicks his pen.

"Well then! You should be out in a few days. You still have some bruising around your neck, but that's just a bruise. You should walk it off, no problem."

"Thanks, doc."

"No problem, Bobby." he says, as he gets up, and puts his pen in the breast pocket of his lab-coat. "Be careful. All the inmates here are dangerous. Even the ones that don't seem like it. _Especially_ the ones that don't seem like it." he warns, as he exits. I simply stare at the door as it closes, and he walks past the glass wall, out of sight. There really is no privacy, here.

I wonder if I'll walk in on something awkward. Considering the glass walls, and large amount of psychopaths, I wouldn't really doubt it. I wonder who would be the most likely to cause really awkward situations. Edward seems like he might. But less so in a way that would embarrass him, if he's capable of feeling shame, and more in a way that would make everybody else uncomfortable, thus feeding his ego. Perhaps the Joker. He seems like a no-shits-given type of guy, which I can understand, I suppose. He's fucking crazy, after all. Perhaps the Hatter. I've heard a few things about him online. He's... He's the king of awkward, and creepy, and just... Ugh. The guy gives me the creeps, just thinking about him gives me the creeps, just thinking about him _giving me the creeps,_ gives me the creeps. There's also Dr. Crane. The Scarecrow... Speaking of the creeps. He's... Complete terror. He's more than the creeps, I hear. He's like night terrors and bad coffee mixed into a sick, bitter ooze of fear and manipulation. He's crazy and smart. He's crazy and smart and dangerous. Very dangerous. It's always the crazy smart ones that are the most dangerous.

This makes me wonder how smart the Joker could be. He's a straight up lunatic. But he's also very, very dangerous. It's like he's not even human, anymore. Maybe he never was. I'm not exactly certain, as far as his story goes. As far as HE goes, in general. I have no idea. He's just a great big ball of crazy that I just don't want to bounce off the walls of my mind, right now. Nope, I do not have that kind of curiosity today.

Hell, I don't even know why I would be thinking too much about any of the other inmates, either. Perhaps I just feel like testing my sanity, today. It's not like this place does that enough. Absolutely not. Not like the Riddler coming to visit me every now and again, making me act all weird, and awkward, and just... tiring me out is gonna test my sanity. Or the other inmates smiling at me like some sort of item in the display window of a fancy shop would drive me just a little crazy. Oh no. My sanity needs to be tested more. Because obviously, I'm not in enough of a crazy lunatic stew. I just have to make it worse for myself!

I find that I'm furrowing my brow, and making a weird face at the glass, in my frustration. Behind the glass, the Joker is standing against a wall. His hands behind his back, and literally smiling ear-to-ear, with those yellow teeth, and that unruly green hair, and that tiny, skinny little frame of his. Once I realize this, and come to, he simply smiles wider, or seems to. He takes his hands out from behind his back, and produces a joker card, from a plain deck of cards, and steps into my room. I'm unwittingly holding my breath, again. I exhale when he sits next to me. Probably a bad idea. I hold my breath again. I'm so incredibly glad that I haven't eaten anything today, or else I'd be fear-puking all over him, by now.

"Hello~" he says, grinning so wide, I was certain his face would crack. I say nothing.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot, don't you?" he continues, playing with the card in his hand, "So, I would like to make an offer." puts the card down on the table. "But I'll save that for when you're better, and can keep up a conversation. You seem a bit out of it today." he laughs, and flicks the big purple bruise on my neck. I yelp a bit, and the lamp on my end-table sparks and goes out. The jokers face is enveloped in shadow. I'm gripping my sheets, and sweating. I'm pretty sure I'm shaking pretty hard, too.

"That's all, for now. See ya, toots. Ha ha ha ha!" he's practically beside himself with laughter by the time he reaches the door, which somehow scares me even further. I pull myself over the bed, and puke all over the floor. Good job, body. Keep yourself under control until he leaves. Proud of you. After I'm done lurching, I can hear him screaming with laughter down the hall.

I hate clowns.


	10. A swelling and sober sound

**(So basically, hi, sorry for falling off the face of the planet. I didn't mean to do that. D: How's everybody doin? I haven't written jack crap diddly shit for a while. So, bare with me if my writing is a little slow-paced or boring right now. I've got a ways to go before I'm up to par, again. So, as always, review, share, favorite, tell me what I'm sucking at so I can improve? Thanks for reading! New chapters coming soon, [I hope!].)**

A buzzer from outside pulls me from a lethargic stupor, likely put on by large doses of morphine, a cocktail of pills and a bit too much bedrest. "Bobby. How are you feeling?" a voice calls from outside. Scottish accent. It's Doctor Smith.

"Oh," I gasp, "A little better than yesterday." Some time had passed since the Jokers visit. The bruise healed. The unease in my stomach had passed. My limbs had grown weaker, and my voice had grown tired. Much of it went by in a blur, you see. Time will do that with the aid of drugs.  
"... Bobby?" the accented man had asked again, his tone sounding urgent. "Bobby, are you with me?" I looked up at the man, who now looked tired, and somewhat thinner. Perhaps working with the patients had him worn… "I asked you how the drugs are working. Do you feel well?"

"I've been telling you" I wheezed, "I don't need the drugs. I'm perfectly _sane_." the Doctor nods, and scribbles something into his notebook, before placing it at his side, tucking his pen away, and pressing the intercom button,

"I believe you, Bobby. I do." With that, he walks away, and watching his trail, I notice a rather beat-up Riddler, resting on one of the beds. I wonder when he got here. It seems like so long since I've seen him. His usually clean-looking hair was scruffy, and unkempt. Five o'clock shadow was sprouting from his jawline, and his cheeks looked somewhat sunk.

I lifted my hand at him, to which he scoffed, and turned. What's his problem? I felt a bubbling in my chest, at that. Why would he ignore me like that? Why would he do such a cruel and insensitive thing? Bastard. Probably doesn't even realize. No, he probably does realize and not give a shit. He doesn't give a single fuck about anybody. Not even himself. If he gave a damn about himself he'd be better. He wouldn't be so fucked up. He'd be healthy and clean and not beat like a little _bitch_.

An alarm goes off, and red lights begin flashing overhead. I pull myself from my thoughts and see that the glass had begun cracking. The riddler's eyes were somewhat wide, and I noticed a doctor coming near to the room, pressing a button, and from there, it all went a little hazy. I got tired, I suppose… I got tired, and I fell asleep…

"The situation with Bobby has worsened since her arrival at Arkam." I hear a low voice murmuring. A slight disturbance in its tone. "Yes we've administered the drugs. Yes, we've taken steps. What?" the voice is silent, for a moment… "You can't be serious," the woman behind the voice sighs, as my vision becomes clearer. What happened? "Alright. I'll set up an interview." she says, "It'll be difficult. Bobby is hardly equipped to start walking, yet." You know, now that she mentions it, I do feel somewhat weak. It's been quite a while since the incident. I can't remember a whole lot since then… I remember a visit from the Joker. I remember his card being twirled around his fingers… That grin, god, that ugly, defiling grin. I attempt to prop myself up with shaky elbows. After a long struggle I manage to be at an obtuse angle. Looking down, I see that my legs are mostly skin and bone. My arms are as well. My hands had shrunken in size, and my ribcage was showing. Dear god, how long had I been out?


End file.
